Under the Knife
by droidgirl
Summary: John Smith and Clara are married; the Doctor and Clara are not. Both realities are falling apart as the Dream Lord plays his games.
1. Graceless

She's not sure why they picked Toronto.

She knows why they moved, of course, but she's not sure why Toronto, why this cold city, full of unfriendly people, but empty of everything else. She had never even heard of this Canadian city eight months ago. It had seemed like such a good idea a few weeks ago.

"Clara, could you get me the hammer?" Clara heard John calling from upstairs.

The woman felt her shoulders tense in irritation. She looked at the box she had only just started unpacking on the kitchen counter, items still in her hand, yet to be set down on a flat surface.

"I could honestly use your help." he sounded tired.

She was tired too.

Swallowing a sigh, Clara put the items she was holding back into the cardboard box and wiped her hands on her jeans. Stomping out into the living area, she rummaged around for a few seconds, before asking,

"I can't find the toolbox."

"It's up here, by the door."

Clara blinked disbelievingly, looking up the stairway. Sighing, she shook her head and walked up. Turning the corner into their bedroom, she found her husband propping a bookcase against the wall with his right shoulder.

"I've got to anchor this in." he smiled at her, though his smile was strained. "It's going to fall on us in our sleep, otherwise. Don't think we'll be moving this old gal again."

The sunlight streaming in through the window glinted in his silver hair; once upon a time, she would have stood and stared at him and marveled at how handsome he was.

Clara picked John's hammer out of the box and took two steps further into the bedroom, just close enough to hand him the tool.

"I can't believe you called me from downstairs just to hand you something sittin' two feet away." She said. There was no humour in her words.

"Clara…" she heard him sigh behind her. "Why don't you stay up here with me? I could use the company. This domestic stuff is boring."

Her movements stilled for a moment but she did not turn back to look at him. After half a minute had passed with neither of them doing anything, he sighed.

"…it's fine. I'll see you downstairs when I'm done."

As she walked away, she turned around briefly, and caught sight of John staring off into nothing, shoulder still propping up the bookcase. Her heart twisted inside her, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from leaving him alone anyway.

Close to the foot of the stairs, with one hand on the polished banister, Clara found herself stumbling abruptly as the room spun around her.

Blinking rapidly, she realized that she was no longer in their rented house. Instead, she was lying on her side in a dark room; the metallic ground was extremely uncomfortable against her cheek.

Her legs felt cold, and she looked down to see that she was no longer wearing jeans, but rather a short pleated skirt that ended above her knees.

It was a rather cute skirt.

Groaning, Clara sat up and rubbed her eyes. When her vision cleared, she looked around her, and sucked in a deep breath in fright.

John lay unconscious only a few feet away, eyes closed and dead to the world around him.

Doctor, she though. He was the Doctor. Not John. That wasn't his real name.

Attempting to stand, Clara found that she could barely lift her limbs; it took a titanic effort to even hoist herself up on her hands and knees in an attempt to reach the Doctor's side. She was only inches away from him when she felt her eyelids begin to droop again.

"No…" she whispered softly, before collapsing to the ground. She blinked sluggishly and…

…looked up at John's face as he hovered over her, hands on her shoulders, looking both concerned and afraid.

"Clara can you hear me?" he asked urgently.

"What happened?" she asked, pushing herself off the ground with her right arm.

"I heard a loud thump and when I came downstairs, you were just lying here," he gathered her into his arms in a tight hug. His chin rested on her head, and Clara hesitantly allowed herself to sink into his embrace. Her arms crept around him gingerly.

"Are you feeling ok?" he asked, his chest vibrating with each consonant.

"I got dizzy." She said with a small laugh, hoping it would reassure him. "Must be the stress of movin'"

"Should I call for an ambulance?" he asked, pulling away just enough to study her face carefully. "It's 999 here right? Canada is basically the UK. Must be, the bloody Queen's all over their money."

Her strained giggle became an all out laugh. John answered with a small smile, relief clearly evident. Clara could have stayed that way forever, in the comfort of John's arms, laughing and happy. She leaned forward and kissed him.

His hold on her tightened as his lips pressed firmly against hers; long fingers threaded through her hair, pulling at the silky strands with slight pressure.

Clara allowed a whimper to escape from her lips, and that was all the encouragement John needed to continue, as he shifted his kisses along her jaw, ending at her earlobe, which he bit down on, eliciting a gasp.

His other hand didn't stay idle. Rather, they drifted towards her fly, unbuttoning her jeans before slipping past the waistband of her underwear. His mouth continued its work on her neck, and by the time his fingers found her clit, she was already wet and ready for him.

"Eager little thing…" he murmured, pulling away to smile mischievously at her.

"Shut up and fuck me," she said, and as she expected, he smacked her jaw very lightly with the hand that he had withdrawn from between her legs. It left a damp streak on her skin.

"Be quiet," his eyes were almost flinty but for the spark she could see. "You don't get to make the rules here."

Clara had to work hard to keep from grinning.

* * *

After, as she lay in his arms, the two of them still huddled in their stairway, Clara held on to her gently dozing husband, wishing she could hold on to that moment forever.

"I love you," she whispered against his skin.

He let out a gentle snore in response.

* * *

_What an odious little man_, John thought as he settled down in front of his new client, who also happened to be the reason why him and his wife had relocated to Toronto for the moment. One of the reasons.

He crossed his long legs, watching as the other man clicked around on his desktop monitor, pretending his new financial executive wasn't in the room. John catalogued the many ways in which his new manager resembled a pig, from his doughy cheeks to his tiny eyes, his pudgy hands to his bulging belly, the unattractive package further exacerbated by the harsh, ill-fitting black suit he donned.

_Money can't buy taste_, John reminded himself, waiting for his new boss to remember that they were supposed to be in a meeting.

Another minute passed, before the CEO of Gallifrey Investments turned to regard him.

"John Smith, I presume." He said, not extending a hand in greeting.

"At your service, Mr. Cunningham," John smiled his most winning smile. "Nice to finally meet you – I hadn't realized you were English."

"You haven't been doing your research." Mr. Cunningham responded, peering at him over his wire rimmed glasses. "Or perhaps you would have turned it down had you found out?"

"And why would that be?" the financial expert asked, a little discomfited at the direction the conversation was taking. He wondered if the executive would actually make a dig at his Scottish accent while expecting that John would simply take it with a cowering smile.

"I tend to research the background of the corporations I contract myself out to, in areas actually relevant to my work. The cultural background of the staff generally fails to interest me."

John wondered briefly if he had been far too blunt with this self-important fuck. Perhaps he had gone too far too fast.

Mr. Cunningham said nothing.

"I understand from our mutual contact that I was hired to sort out your books, because of some untrustworthy accounting that has been taking place for over a decade." John refused to be intimidated by the strangely hostile man he had only just met. "Some twenty-five billion dollars worth of untrustworthy accounting that may end up sending this company face first into the ground."

The man across from him looked irritated as he nodded.

"I also understand that your Board doesn't know about this 'little' fact, and my presence – my very expensive presence – was called because I'm the only one in the world capable of saving your arse from the very, very hot fires of the auditors your stakeholders tend to employ. Not to mention the Canadian Revenue Agency – I understand that the jails here are terrible places to be in, yes? Overcrowded and violent, if I'm not mistaken."

"That's quite enough Mr. Smith." The executive was turning red in impotent rage.

Sometimes, John loved his job.

"If the board finds out, the whole company will indeed fall apart." Mr. Cunningham continued. "Two thousand livelihoods are at stake. If you'd like to continue being a smug prat, go ahead, but please don't forget that the fate of two thousand blameless employees are in your hands."

Sometimes, John hated his job. He stared at his new employer as they sat in the shining office at the top of a skyscraper in the financial district of Toronto.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything in retaliation, but did a double take instead.

Suddenly, the both of them were in a dimly lit place, illuminated only by the glowing column set behind Mr. Cunningham, who grinned nastily at John. They were no longer sitting.

A soft moan came from somewhere to his right. Looking down, both his hearts started to pound furiously – Clara lay on the ground, her eyes closed and her breathing uneven.

The Doctor knelt down, reaching out to shake her awake, but she did not respond.

"She can't hear you." The Dreamlord said. The Doctor could hear the malice in his voice.

"We've done this before. All I have to do is wake us up." The Doctor said, attempting to make for the console. But every step he felt harder and harder. It was like wading through a patch of quicksand. Sinking down, he looked over at the Dreamlord in rage and horror.

"Uh-uh." The Dreamlord smirked. "I'm capable of learning from my mistakes. As for you…"

"…you'll be given your own office – it's the one right beside mine. You will get your own assistant if you should require one. Whatever helps you to help me." The CEO leaned forward menacingly. "But if you fail me, I promise you, I will ensure that you will never find so much as a clerk's position ever again. Anywhere."

John blinked at the man in front of him.

"If I fail, you'll be behind bars." He smiled an unpleasant smile at the executive, fighting down a strange urge to snarl at the other man like an animal instead. "I believe I'll still be at the better end of that deal."

Standing up without being dismissed, John picked up his coat, hoping his cell phone was in one of its pockets.

He needed to call Clara, and he needed to call her immediately.

"I would say that it was a pleasure to meet you." He said coldly. "But that would make me a liar."

Not waiting for a response, John stalked out of the CEO's presence and into his new office. Closing the door behind him, he dialed Clara's number immediately.

It seemed to take forever. He paced the hardwood floor as the phone rang and kept on ringing, pulling at his hair with his one free hand.

"Clara Oswald speaking,"

John thought his heart would explode with relief.

"It's me." He said, pausing mid-step. "Are you ok?"

"What?" she sounded extremely confused.

"Just…are you ok?" he repeated.

"Yes." she sounded annoyed. "Are _you_?"

John breathed in and out, feeling his heart rate slow to a normal pace.

"I am now."

He gazed out his window, which overlooked the cold expanse of Lake Ontario.

"As long as you're safe."


	2. Little Talks

**Little Talks**

_Although the truth may vary_

_This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore_

* * *

"I'm coming!" Clara yelled, wiping her hands on the damp dishcloth.

Someone was at the front door.

Composing herself – _remember you're still British_ – she walked into the living room, curious and a little apprehensive as to who might have been calling. It was the first day John was at work, and she wasn't expecting him or anyone else at the door.

"Hello and welcome!" the woman on the other side of the door said, waving cheerfully. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and her eyes were heavily lined.

"Hello," Clara smiled. "How can I help you?"

"The question is, how can _I _help _you_?" the woman asked, sounding amused as she stepped in without being invited. Her combat boots made a loud noise on the floor. "My name is Trisa D. I'm a friend of John's. Trisa like 'Trisha', but without an 's'. Tacky, I know."

"Oh." Clara's smile faded a little. "I don't remember him ever mentioning you."

"Really?" Trisa said, turning to look at Clara with a bright grin. "That's rather rude, considering I'm the reason you're both where you are."

"How do you mean?" Clara felt the beginnings of a headache. She hadn't closed the door yet, not sure if she wanted this woman in her house at all.

"Well, to be more precise, I'm – partly, anyway- the reason he has a job in this city…" Trisa's tone gentled. "I'm sorry, I'm being extremely rude. Shall we start over? I can stand outside and wait for you to let me in like a normal human would."

Clara relaxed, finally closing the front door. "No need. I'm the one who's being rude. Can I get you a cup of tea? John's at work right now though, if you're looking for him."

"Oh I know," the visitor followed her hostess into the kitchen. "I wanted to come see how _you_ were doing. John and I are always in touch."

"How do the two of you know each other?" Clara rummaged around her cabinets, trying to remember where she had stored her mugs. Her eyebrows furrowed in consternation at the realization that she had forgotten how she had organized her kitchen.

"We've known each other so long," The other woman said, settling herself down on one of the counter stools, adjusting her flowing skirt carefully. "Ancient history as some might say."

Clara glanced around, noticing the greys streaking Trisa's hair. She suddenly felt a pang of something that seemed a lot like jealousy. "Were the two of you…"

"Oh goodness. Nothing like that." Trisa said after a releasing a bright peal of laughter. "No, we're just friends. Very good friends."

As she mentally berated herself for that moment of thoughtlessness, Clara found the kettle. Filling it with cold tap water, she set it on the stove and turned around to face her guest with a wide grin.

"Well it's nice to finally meet you Trisa D." she said. "What does the 'D' stand for?"

"It stands for something long, complicated and a tad bit boring." Trisa smiled. "How are you liking everything? The house? Canada? Anything you have questions about?"

"Lots of things," Clara said. "Not sure where I would start. This house itself takes some time to get used to."

"Oh?" Trisa leaned forward. "How so?"

_It's a new house,_ Clara wanted to say. _Those always take some getting used to._

"I think it's haunted." She said instead. "Or at least, I think there's something…not right about the house. Sometimes, I think I'm afraid of it."

Trisa listened intently.

"I'm…sorry." Clara shook her head, reaching for the boiling kettle and setting it on a trivet. She went back to rummaging for her mugs which she still couldn't find. "I sound ridiculous. Probably just the stress of moving."

Trisa got up and crossed the space between the women. She reached out and grasped Clara's hands in her own.

"It's perfectly fine to talk about it." She told the younger woman. "You don't sound ridiculous at all."

It was strange – Clara was not necessarily fond of strangers getting too close. In this instance, if anything, she was just surprised.

Something clattered loudly on one of the upper floors of the house, causing both women to look up.

"You better go get that," For the first time since Trisa arrived, her smile had disappeared; she kept on looking up at the ceiling. "I have to get to something else right about now anyway."

"Oh." Clara said, feeling irrationally disappointed. "Ok."

"Here," Trisa said, handing over a card that Clara hadn't realized she had been holding. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I'm available for John and his Clara at any given moment – I promise."

"Thanks…I think…" Clara took the card and followed Trisa back to the front door. "Perhaps we can all grab a drink sometime – you, me and John."

Trisa turned sideways and peered at her. Clara wasn't sure, but the older woman seemed a little wistful.

As the door closed behind Trisa, Clara looked at the card in her hand.

It said

_Trisa D._

_Professional TT, S&amp;R_

_416-582-7347_

"Huh." Clara said, and placed the card on the side table beside the stairway.

Something rattled upstairs once again.

* * *

Even during the day, the stairs were not the most cheerful part of the house, tucked away from all the windows as they were.

Looking upstairs was like peering into an alternate shadowy universe, quite apart from the otherwise bright and cheerful space.

The noise was coming from the attic, the entrance of which was only just visible from where she stood.

She supposed there was always the chance raccoons had gotten into their house. Or perhaps, there might have been a draught blowing in from some gap nobody else had ever spotted before.

Neither John nor herself had been up there yet. They had talked about storing unnecessary belongings in the attic, but they hadn't actually gotten around to it.

Which led to the question – what _was_ up there, if not their things?

Her words to Trisa, spoken less than three minutes ago, repeated themselves in her mind. Gingerly, she placed one foot in front of the other, slowly ascending the stairs. When she finally reached the top of the stairs, her fingers reached for the cord hanging from the ceiling, which would have drawn down the ladder to the attic.

As her fingertips brushed the plastic ring tied to the end of the string, a shrill and sudden ringing caused her to jump.

It was only her cell phone, she realized as she stood there, breathing hard.

Slowly, she walked back downstairs to find her cell phone resting on the side table beside Trisa's card.

"Clara Oswald speaking," she said, touching the green answer button on her phone and making her way back to the kitchen.

"It's me," John was the other end, sounding faraway. "Are you ok?"

"Yes," she said tersely, wondering if she was lying. "Are you?"

He seemed as if he needed to think about it.

"As long as you're safe." He said at last.

It was an odd answer. Clara didn't know how to respond, so she waited another few seconds, before she asked,

"What time will you be home for dinner?"

"I don't know." He replied.

"It's your first day, you can't get out sooner than 'I don't know'," she felt a little peeved.

"Clara, I'm not hanging around having fun over here. I'm working. They're paying me a lot of money for every minute I'm here." He sounded exasperated.

"Right," She laughed mirthlessly. "Fine. I'll see you whenever."

Clara tapped the red button on the phone's touch screen, ending the call.

The satisfaction of hanging up on her husband lasted for about two seconds before it gave way to regret. Shutting her eyes, leaning with her back against the kitchen counter, she massaged her temples against the full blown headache that had developed.

When next she opened her eyes, she stared long and hard at the sight before her.

Two cheerful red mugs sat not too far away, waiting for her to fill them.

* * *

The weeks flew by, and perhaps it was the fatigue, but Clara could only remember them as a passing blur.

They were, she knew, filled with the business of settling into this strange new city, making adjustments to their living space and finding a new job.

Not that there were much teaching jobs available for an Englishwoman without any French skills, as it turned out.

Moreover, as it turned out, there was a language barrier of sorts.

"Sorry?" The cashier looked blankly at Clara after she had politely asked to pay by Visa one day.

"I said," Clara spoke slowly. "Can I please pay with my credit card."

The teenager looked as if Clara had just insulted her multicolored hair. She pressed a few buttons and gestured towards the credit card machine.

"It's going to take me a while to sound like an American," Clara said with a nervous laugh and immediately regretted it when the cashier shot her an even dirtier look.

"We don't speak American." The girl said stiffly, and proceeded to ignore her customer.

Bloody Toronto – slightly less rude than New York City, slightly more polite than London, infinitely more confusing than either. So much for the stereotype of the pleasant Canadian.

* * *

"Honestly, can they please make up their mind on how they want to spell things?" Clara gestured with her glass of Ontario Chardonnay, which she was finding extremely drinkable. There were redeeming features to this place after all.

"I have to keep repeating myself at work." John shook his head from the other side of their small dining table, twirling spaghetti with his fork. "I would have said it's because my new assistant is slow, but that's not true. It's everyone. Or rather, it's me."

"How are things with that manager of yours?" she asked. "Still hate him?"

"I barely see him. When I do though…" John paused. "I don't know what it is. Perhaps I do know him from somewhere else…either way, I still bloody hate his guts."

"And the work?" she chewed and swallowed. "How's that going?"

"Its fine I guess." He frowned, pausing in his movements. "There are so many lines of numbers I work through…they all become a blur after a while."

Clara was about to ask if John wanted to get a drink with Trisa sometime during the weekend, when he looked up at her and asked, "How's your own job search coming along? Any leads?"

"Yes!" Clara grinned before she took another sip of her wine. "I've gotten myself a job as a tutor for some kids needing help with their English and Geography."

"Quickly, where's France? Can you tell me without looking at your phone?" John joked as he put down his empty wine glass.

"Oh stick it." she laughed, lightheaded both from the good news, the wine and John.

John studied her across the table, and said, very quietly, "I love you."

"I love you too." She sounded quite happy.

"Clara…" he put his fork down.

"What is it? Have you gone and shagged your assistant?" Clara's suddenly felt a little desperate. She sensed the sudden shift in mood, sensed the levity slipping away.

The coldness that settled over his features told her that it was the wrong thing to joke about.

"Ironic, coming from you." He stood up, and as he did so, he pushed his chair back with loud screech.

"That's not fair." Clara put her own glass down and leaned back, not looking at him.

She could feel him looking at her, and it made her suddenly feel sick to her stomach. The silences between them were becoming too much to bear, but on the other hand, she wasn't sure that anything she could say would help.

"I suppose you're right." He admitted finally. "I'm…sorry."

"We can't even have dinner anymore like normal people can we?" she asked. "Not a single, real conversation without either of us trying to rip the other person's throat out."

"No…not since…" John seemed unable to finish his sentence.

Clara sighed.

Danny Pink.

The name the hung unspoken between them.

* * *

In the TARDIS, the Dreamlord circled the console.

"What do you think you can achieve exactly?" he questioned out loud.

Looking down at an unconscious Clara, he knelt down beside her and stroked her cheek, smiling as he added,

"There's not much you can do, either way. She's mine now."

Clara groaned softly, as if in pain.


	3. Family Tree

**Family Tree**

"You can't keep me under forever." The Doctor said, pulling himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the railings.

He was thousands of years old, and right then, he was feeling every single minute of it in all of his bones. Lying on the floor of the TARDIS was fucking terrible.

"You're forgetting something." The Dream Lord said, circling around from the other side of the console. "I am as much you, as you are me. I exist because you exist. Ergo, I'm here…because on some deep level _you_ want me here."

The Dream Lord was looking a lot less like a lump of lard.

The Doctor couldn't help but notice that the other man's physical appearance changed every time he regained consciousness in the TARDIS – which was a lot less often than he preferred. Where before, the manifestation had been fat and pasty, he was growing thinner all the time. His hair seemed to be graying rapidly, and his wardrobe steadily became darker and darker. The Dream Lord's eyes had turned obsidian, which was an extremely disconcerting development.

The Time Lord hated to admit it, but the Dream Lord wasn't wrong – they were two sides of the same coin.

"Of course I'm not wrong," the other him scoffed, his accent as Scottish as Amy Pond's. "But I can't understand why you're fighting me. This is what you secretly want isn't it? A life where Danny Pink is nothing but a nasty memory; Clara, in your bed, bound only to you."

"She's miserable." The Doctor spat. "You've given her a man too self-involved to give her the love she craves, too old to give her a real life and too selfish to give her up."

"How's that different from this reality?" the Dream Lord laughed, walking closer.

"And why Toronto?" The Doctor demanded testily. "I hate that city. It's cold, and the people are pretentious. The food is middling at best."

"I only show up when you're trying to punish yourself," the Dream Lord squatted in front of the reclining Time Lord, drawing his face close, so close, the Doctor could smell the other man. He had a faint sickly sweet odour about him, not unlike the smell of old rot. "And boy, you sure know how to do it,"

As the Doctor drifted back into unconsciousness against his will, he heard his alter-ego say,

"Try to enjoy it a little. Consider it a gift to yourself."

* * *

"John, come to bed." He heard Clara say. "You're going to hurt your neck sleeping here."

John's eyelids fluttered open. He felt rather than saw his wife prise the whiskey glass out of his hand. They were sitting in what was supposed to be their study, although it was mostly unpacked boxes of things waiting to be put on empty shelves.

"I'm still drinking that," he said instinctively, sitting up.

"No you're not. It's empty." She sounded a little amused. "Come on, let's go."

"No, wait…" pulling at her hand, he became more awake with each second. She didn't resist, letting him tug her onto his lap. "I'm still sorry. About earlier."

"Yeah well…I am too." She said, brushing her hair out of her face and looking down at him.

"Perfect. We agree on something." He let his fingers drift over her cheek. Unbidden, an image of her lying unconscious on the ground suddenly flashed through his mind. He jerked in shock, suddenly completely lucid.

"John?" Clara sounded worried. "Are you ok?"

"I…" he held on to her tightly, burying his forehead into her upper arm. "Yes. I think so. Sorry."

"You're killing yourself at work." She tsked.

"Maybe. Maybe that's it." He said.

That close to Clara, surrounded by her smell, John found himself intoxicated by more than just the scotch. Pressing kisses up her arm, he pulled her down towards him, pressing his mouth against hers.

Encouraged by the sounds she made at the back of her throat, he let one hand wander over her breasts, caressing each gently at first, and then squeezing them with firmer intent.

The kisses themselves had changed; while it had started out fairly chaste and sweet, he was now aggressively nudging her lips open with his own, fiercely plundering her mouth with his tongue.

She shifted against his lap, and he let own a gasp of his own. One hand reached upwards to her hair, and guided her down between his legs, until she was on all fours facing him.

"You know what to do," he said, leaning back and watching her. Wide eyed, mouth parted in a restless pant, she reached up and undid his fly. Careful hands pulled his clothing away.

Her small pink tongue flicked out and gave the tip of his cock a few laps. Impatiently, he reached for her hair again. Pulling her head back, he commanded, "Open."

So she did.

Slowly, he pushed his cock into her waiting mouth, allowing himself to revel in the warm softness that was Clara. He pushed until he could see that she could barely breathe, and pulled out again, before shoving his cock deeper back in.

She moaned piteously, but didn't indicate that he should stop.

Fucking her face, he couldn't help grow harder as he saw the tears seeping out at the corners of her eyes.

When it got too much for him, when he needed to be buried in her hot, tight cunt, he murmured,

"Turn around."

Still on all fours, she complied.

Crouching down, he flipped her skirt up and stroked her bottom through her cotton underpants. When his fingers reached the apex between her legs, he pushed the cotton aside and shoved two fingers in her.

"Only whores like being used." He smirked. "Tell me Clara, are you my whore?"

"Yes sir," she breathed as he moved his fingers within her.

"I can tell. You're dripping."

"Only for you sir…"

He fingered her until she was close to coming, before he moved behind her and rammed his cock into her eager channel.

* * *

Morning arrived.

She was brushing her hair, getting ready for her assignment when John said,

"I think maybe we should talk about it. Talk about him. About Danny Pink."

Clara carefully put the brush down on the dresser, turning to look at her husband who continued putting on his shirt nonchalantly. The way he refused to look at her though, told her that he was anything but comfortable.

"I agree." She said carefully.

She really did. This was the first time John had said his name without flying into a rage.

"I don't…blame you. For what happened. I blame me." He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his wingtips out of the closet in front of him.

"Why?" she sounded incredulous.

"Because…because I don't think it would have happened if I'd been a better man." He bent down and tied his shoelaces. "If I'd been around more."

"That's stupid." She stood up and walked over to sit next to him. "I mean, yes, we could have spent more time together in the last couple of years. But I shouldn't have played along with Dan…Daniel. I shouldn't have let it get as far as it did. I should have tried to talk to you about how I felt, instead of…instead of what I did."

He reached over and grasped her clasped hands.

"We're talking now." He said, looking her in the eye. "I want you to know, I'm not angry at you. Not anymore, anyway. Or at least, I'm very close to being not angry."

"Good," she smiled. It was a genuine smile.

"We do need to talk about that other thing though." He said, standing up and pulling away.

"Huh?" she sounded confused.

"Kids. Children." John picked out a tie. "How I'm not interested in having those, and how I think you are, even if you say you're not."

"Christ, John." That old irritation started to flare up deep in her belly. "We finally have a good talk and you go and ruin it…"

"I'm not saying I want to talk about it now. I have a meeting in an hour," he bent down and kissed her forehead. "But we should. Soon."

"Do you want to talk about our age difference and how one of us will die before the other?" Clara asked sarcastically.

"Not particularly, no." John said, walking out the bedroom door.

"I hate you." She snapped, and immediately, immediately regretted that lie spoken in her rage. John stopped in his tracks.

"Well, I on the other hand, love you so much, I would do just about _anything_ to make you happy," He bit out after a while.

Clara wanted very much to shriek in despair, and to take back the last three words she said.

* * *

"Smith." The CEO said as he walked past John's desk. "My office. Now."

John sighed, leaning back in his seat. As if his morning wasn't bad enough, what with the fight with Clara and all.

"John," the CEO's new assistant Martha poked her head into his office. "He's serious. He's not in a good mood this morning."

"I'm not budging until he says please," John snapped.

"He's not going to." Martha sounded a little offended at the Scottish man's tone.

"Then I guess I'm not going in there."

Rolling her eyes, the Executive Assistant walked away, the tapping of her heels fading.

Looking at the empty doorway, he wondered where he had met Martha before. There was something painfully familiar in her sharp features and dark eyes, her clipped speech and precise manners. It couldn't have been back in London.

"Mr. Smith," a young man John didn't know appeared where Martha had stood. He seemed extremely nervous. "My name is Rory - HR sent me over because your assistant called in sick today."

"Rory," John repeated, staring at the newcomer. Maybe he was getting a stroke. Why were all these new faces so familiar? Was the stress finally getting to him or was he was going completely bonkers?

"Rory Williams-Pond, sir," he said.

"What kind of name is that?"

The poor boy looked at a loss for words.

"Go…fetch me a coffee or something. I have work to do." John turned back to his computer screen. He wasn't lying when he told Martha that there were no circumstances under which he was going to answer his manager's rude summons, unless the other man started treating him with some respect.

* * *

"How are you finding the assignment?" Trisa asked, sipping on her cup of tea. Today, she wore a bright blue dress, though she continued to match that with her signature combat boots. Clara secretly wondered if perhaps she only owned a single pair of shoes.

"Angie and Artie are such sweethearts," Clara stirred her own drink idly with a wooden stick.

They were sitting in a place called Tealish, where skinny, disaffected girls behind the counter made perfect cups of tea.

"Good!" Trisa sounded pleased. "I'm glad I helped."

"Glad you did too." Clara smiled wanly. "I was starting to really hate sitting at home all day not doing very much."

"Are you still feeling uneasy about the house?"

"I…don't know." Clara confessed. "I've had other things to think about lately. Bit distracting."

Her friend peered at her over the lid of her paper cup.

"Is everything alright?" Trisa asked curiously. "It's not John is it? He can be an idiot."

"No, of course not." Clara lied, then shook her head. "Actually…yes it is."

Trisa looked at her expectantly.

"He's not really over…over something I did back in England. Something awful." Clara sighed. "And he's now starting on about children…he's insisting I want them. I don't know why. "

"Perfectly natural. You're so much younger than him." Trisa leaned forwards sympathetically. "Anyone would expect that you might want children."

"Right, except for the part where I don't," Clara said. "Doesn't my opinion count for something?"

"He's just worried you'll regret it." Trisa said, reaching out to touch Clara with her cool, smooth hand. "He's old, he thinks he knows everything."

"I don't know how to reassure him any more than I have." Clara said glumly.

"Give him time love." Her friend patted her comfortingly. "It's something you both have; albeit, one of you has more of that than the other."

* * *

"Sir?" Rory asked from the door as the lunch hour approached.

John grunted a non-committal response from his desk; his brows were furrowed in consternation as he stared at his screen. He'd worked on the document in front of him before, he was sure of it.

"Sir, Mr. Cunningham is requesting some of your time." the younger man said. "He says 'please'."

Looking away from his monitor, John narrowed his eyes, doubting very much that the CEO had used that particular word. With a resigned air, he stood up and unplugged his laptop.

"Have we met before? Today that is. Before today." John asked, stopping in front of Rory.

"No sir, I don't think so." the temporary assistant said.

"No really, where were you before this gig?" John pressed on.

"I was a nurse. The hospital I worked at shut down, and I needed something to do for the time being so…" Rory shrugged.

"A nurse?" John's brow furrowed further.

"Yes sir, a nurse."

John walked away, something niggling at the back of his brain like an itch that needed badly to be scratched.

"Go right in Mr. Smith," Martha said from her desk, never looking up as she typed diligently at her computer. He considered stopping to ask her where he had met her before as well, but decided against it.

"John. Glad to see you've deigned to grace me with your presence," his boss said the moment John stepped in.

"Glad to see you're not attempting to summon me like I'm your pet," John replied. There was something odd about this picture – something strange about the man in front of him. Odder than usual anyway.

"We need to talk about the report you sent me," the CEO did not respond to John's not so subtle jab.

"And here I thought this was a social call." John sounded irritable.

"Your work is fine, but it's not going fast enough. You need to pick up the pace a bit. There's a board meeting in two weeks."

The financial expert counted to ten silently, closing his eyes and breathing slowly.

"You're asking me to hide evidence of all finances that have gone missing over the last ten years, without the process slipping into illegal territory." He said. "James, they say that out of quick, cheap and good, you can only pick two."

"You're not bloody cheap. You're charging me three thousand a day," Mr. Cunningham scowled.

"Cheaper than a prison term for you, and certainly cheaper than millions of dollars owed to the stakeholders."

Out of nowhere, a slender hand set a coffee cup on the desk in front of him. John saw Mr. Cunningham rise out of his seat, a look of fury crossing his pudgy features.

"We didn't ask for coffee,"

"It isn't for you," a painfully familiar voice said. John looked up.

"Hello sweetie," the intruder offered him a brilliant smile. "My god but you can be stubborn can't you."

She picked up the cup of steaming liquid and before John could duck, River Song threw the contents in his face.


	4. Sleepyheard

**Sleepyhead**

"River?" The Doctor sputtered. "Also OW!"

"How did you get in here?" the Dream Lord asked, standing up behind the desk. He looked furious, and his image flickered between that of the Doctor's own face, and the façade of the fat CEO.

"You're starting to wake up," River smiled sweetly at the Doctor, who blinked at her. He desperately wanted to stay lucid, to stay in the moment.

"What is this?" John spoke instead, glaring at the stranger in front of him. She was still holding an empty cup, and his suit was ruined.

"Honestly, how stubborn can you be?" the woman's smile faded. "You know there's something wrong with this world. You've been trying to wake up. _I'm _not even really here, I'm just the part of your brain that's desperately trying to save you. Save Clara."

"Mr. Cunningham," John said, wiping at his face with a handkerchief he had drawn out of his breast pocket. "If this is some sort of prank, some sort of sick and humiliating game you've devised, please listen very carefully to my following words."

The financial expert stood up.

"Fuck you – I quit, you sick, fat fuck."

John stalked out, ignoring the enraged look on the other man's face and the triumphant smile on the woman's.

* * *

"You're not going to win this," she said to him. "You can't hope to control him."

"Shut up. You're not even real," the Dream Lord growled.

"From one figment to another, that's rich." She laughed at him.

Outside, a strong wind began to tear through the streets of the city, while overhead, clouds gathered rapidly, marring what had been a perfect summer sky.

* * *

"You really should come in, stay for dinner even," Clara said, sitting in the passenger seat of Trisa's blue car, which was almost the same shade as the woman's dress. Clearly, her friend's taste ran in a certain shade.

"I really can't." Trisa looked overhead. "A storm is coming."

"Isn't that what windshield wipers are for?" Clara joked, looking at her friend fondly. She hadn't met a lot of people in the short time she'd been in Toronto. It was nice to have someone she could talk to.

"Not sure those will be enough to do the trick for this one," Trisa turned to Clara. "Off you go, tell John I send my love."

"I'm serious. We need to get together sometime. All of us in the same room." Clara admonished.

Trisa's smile turned sad as she looked at the former schoolteacher.

"Some day, maybe."

Opening the door, Clara had one foot out on the pavement when Trisa stopped her with a cool hand to her arm.

"It's going to be a very bad storm. Promise me you'll be careful." She said very gravely.

_How bad do storms in Toronto get_, Clara wondered worriedly.

"I promise." She nodded, before fully exiting the car.

By the time Clara reached her front door, fat drops of rain were already started to splatter down on her, and the sky was ominously dark.

Once indoors, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and turned to hang her purse up on the hooks they had installed along the wall. In the silence of the empty house, all she could hear was the sound of rain pattering against the glass windows, and the howling of a gale that was picking up strength by the second.

The moment she took a step away from the door, a loud knocking disrupted the tranquility of the house.

Clara looked up the stairway, rooted in place.

She hadn't thought of the bizarre knocking coming from the attic in weeks. The terror of that afternoon however, all came rushing back, as something thumped insistently from somewhere above. Trying desperately to push that sick feeling of fear aside that seeped through like bile in her belly, Clara wished John were home with her.

Outside, the storm picked up speed. Inside, something unseen demanded an answer from her.

* * *

The cab driver –named Mickey Smith according to the ID on his dashboard – seemed incapable of navigating through the city streets.

"Don't you have GPS or something?" John demanded from the backseat.

"It's not working," was the response. "I think this storm is interfering with my signal."

John was still irritated at how the morning had progressed, at the coffee still drying in his hair and most of all, he was incredibly irritated that he was sure he recognized the taxi driver.

Which was utterly ridiculous. Completely and utterly. Perhaps he should be going to see a doctor instead, to make sure he wasn't having a stroke.

"Don't I know you?" the man in the driver's seat asked, turning to look at him.

_Oh bugger all._

"I don't think so, no." John muttered.

"You remind me of a guy my friend dated. Her name was Rose."

The taxi took another turn down a side street John couldn't hope to recognize.

"She was crazy about this guy. Would have done anything for him," the driver continued, stopping at a traffic light.

"I put out a sun to say goodbye to her – that has to count for something." John found the words flowing out of his mouth. Images of a blonde girl crying on a beach flashed through his mind.

"Lord of Time and Space – you could have tried harder is what I think. If you had wanted to badly enough, anyways." The traffic lights blinking through the rain-splattered windows seemed to take on a different frequency. The world around John wavered between the deck of an ancient ship, and the grimy interior of a city cab.

"Must have been easy standing outside looking in, eh Ricky?" he asked sharply.

"The name's Mickey," the other man retorted.

John closed his eyes in the backseat and asked in a shaky voice, "What's happening to me?"

"Your consciousness is fighting back." Mickey said cheerfully, starting to drive again as the lights turned green.

"I need to find Clara," John said.

"You need a good therapist as well if that helps." Mickey said helpfully. "You sir, have got some massive issues."

"Please…" The Doctor's head fell backwards.

* * *

"You're ruining it for yourself." The Dream Lord growled, still squatting like a malignant tumour in front of him.

"You heard me earlier," The Doctor mustered all of his energy to grin a nasty smile of his own. "Fuck. You."

* * *

The world spun on its axis, or so it seemed.

He was sitting in a taxi, and then somehow, he was on the floor of his living room, holding the shaking body of his wife.

"J…John," she hiccupped. "How did…I didn't…how did you get in?"

There was a loud series of knock coming from somewhere above.

"What happened?" he demanded, squeezing her shoulders as he looked up.

"I…" she was trying to catch her breath, trying not to cry. "Trisa dropped me off, and when I came in…"

"Who's Trisa?" John asked, looking down at Clara, who stared wild-eyed back at him.

"Your friend, Trisa. Trisa D,"

Shaking his head, he watched as her confusion intensified.

"You have to know her." Clara insisted. "She helped me get my new job. I told you. She told me she helped _you _get this contract"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" he said, trying to ignore the thumping that hadn't stopped. It was starting to get to him.

A window broke somewhere in the house, forced in by the strength of the storm.

Clara seemed momentarily annoyed enough to forget that she was frightened. Pulling out of his arms, she stood up and retrieved her purse. After a few seconds of digging through it, she handed him a small business card.

Taking it with shaking fingers, John read the card.

Then he read it again.

Bowing his head, he let the card slip from his fingers, and watched as it fluttered to the ground.

"Great." He said. "Just…brilliant."

"What is it?" Trisa asked. "What's wrong?"

"Me." He said. "I'm wrong."

"I don't understand…"

The Doctor allowed himself to pull Clara into his arms, allowed himself to breathe her in, to hold her close to his hearts. _One last time_, a little voice said at the back of his head; he wanted to hold on to this moment for the rest of time.

"You're scaring me," she said, muffled against his chest. "What's going on?"

"Clara, I need you to focus," he said, drawing away to look her in the eye. "I need you to remember that none of this is real."

"What?" she sounded more worried than ever. "John please, this is crazy…I think we have an intruder…"

"Is it?" He demanded, ignoring the frantic knocking from upstairs, ignoring the fact that more windows were shattering all around the house as the storm began ripping the house apart.

More accurately, reality was falling apart around them.

The Doctor shook Clara gently when she threatened to become distracted by the chaos. "There has to be a part of you that knows this isn't right."

"I…" she stared at him.

"The children you teach, where do they live?" he demanded, deciding to try a different approach.

"Downtown."

"Downtown where," he pressed on.

"Downtown somewhere, I don't know, I need to find their address in my phone!" her eyes were wide. "I don't see what that has to do with anything."

Something like shadows fluttered, gathered and re-formed in the middle of the stairs.

"Don't bother – you've created a perfect reality," the Dream Lord chuckled from where he stood. "Her weak human brain cannot comprehend this world for what it is."

Clara looked up and shrieked in unadulterated terror, falling against the man she thought of as her husband.

"Ignore him," The Doctor ground out between gritted teeth. "He's not real."

"I am real. I am as real as you John, or Doctor, or however you're looking to call yourself," The Dream Lord took a step down towards them.

"I don't understand," Clara whispered, looking between the two figures standing before her. Her sanity seemed on the verge of finally fraying. "That's…John, he's you!"

"I'm thousands of years old, with an extremely well-developed psyche and a metric ton of baggage to go along with it," the Doctor muttered. "I'm surprised we don't have episodes like this more often."

Grabbing her hand firmly, he turned and faced his alter-ego.

"You're finished here. You've made your point."

The Dream Lord opened his mouth to argue, but the Time Lord simply walked forwards and up, attempting to push past the other figure.

It resulted in him sprawling backwards onto the ground, holding the right side of his face. That iron taste in his mouth, he realized, was the taste of his own blood.

"John!" Clara cried out. She looked up at the Dream Lord, fire in her eyes. Picking up a heavy statuette sitting nearby, she stood protectively over the Doctor. "Leave him alone. Leave _us_ alone! Or I swear to god, I will fucking _kill_ you."

"She's so pretty when she's angry," the Dream Lord crooned, obsidian eyes widening in delight. "I can see why you like to push her so,"

"Ugh." The Doctor groaned, pushing himself up. "That pain feels real enough."

"Are you ok?" Clara asked, not budging from her position in front of him or taking her eyes off the man on the stairs.

"It appears I have some real mental problems I need to work on," the Doctor responded with a half smile. "Clara, please forgive me, I'm about to have a serious discussion with our guest."

Standing up, the Doctor ignored the throbbing pain and calmly ascended the stairs. The Dream Lord descended a few more steps to greet him.

"You really are a…"

The Doctor didn't let him finish his sentence. Instead, his drew his fist back and punched the other man square in the nose, sending him crumpling to the ground.

"I am sick of you controlling my life. I've let you hurt people I care about, over and over," The Doctor didn't stop beating down on the Dream Lord. "I am finished with you!"

The Dream Lord lay on the ground, bleeding and visibly bruised. He was no longer moving, and his breathe came in short, shallow spurts. The Doctor, crouched over him, had one hand gripping the downed man's shirt, and the other poised to rain down more blows. Red stained his knuckles.

"John?" Clara asked softly to the side.

Outside, the storm seemed to have abated; the thumping overhead had ceased.

"Are we safe now?" she asked, looking at him as if afraid of the answer.

He stared at the man he had battered.

"No. Not with me, never with me." He breathed.

The Doctor gladly opened his fist to accept Clara's small hand in his.

"Should we call the police?" she inquired, eyes wide.

For a moment, he considered saying 'yes'.

The police, who would come and take care of the – creature – lying on the stairs.

John and Clara could continue living in this house, him with a regular job, a mortgage, maybe even a car; she could keep on tutoring, nurturing children in the city. He could come home every night to the welcoming arms of his wife, tell her he loved her, and let her tell him the same…in a few years, they could adopt a child, start a real family.

John and Clara could have a life together.

If only it were real, and if only her actual body wouldn't simply waste away from hunger and deprivation on the cold floor of his ship. It was the futile fantasies of an old man.

The Doctor sighed, squeezing his companion's hand.

"Not yet. I do think its time though, that we see what's in our attic. Don't you?" he asked. She looked like she was going to argue, but for some reason, she kept silent. Instead, she nodded at him resignedly.

"For what it's worth," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

* * *

After they gingerly stepped past the body of the unconscious man on the stairs, the Doctor and Clara's climb to the second floor was mostly uneventful.

Under the entrance to the attic, The Doctor didn't hesitate. Almost with cruel force, he yanked the cord down.

"After you," he said gently to Clara. It wasn't quite a request.

"Hang on," she said, looking at him with all the steely determination she could muster. "I think we should talk about what's happening. Or what's already happened."

"We can talk about it," he hedged. "After we get into the attic."

"No, we need to talk. Now." She breathed in. "What's going on? Who was that man? Why don't you know Trisa? Most importantly, why are you acting completely insane?"

"Those are all extremely loaded questions. Climb up." His patience was wearing a little thin.

"Answer them. Try."

The pounding in his head was only a little worse than the sting in his cheek.

"Fine. That man was an embodiment of my guilt and self-loathing, Trisa D. is an anagram for the name of my spaceship, and I'm acting completely insane because after a few thousand years of life and loss, you can't bloody expect me to function like a regular Time Lord, much less a human. There. That about sums up the situation."

Clara blinked at him.

"John…darling…" she said carefully. "Perhaps we should call for a Doctor."

"Right, I did. That's me." The Doctor said, exasperated.

"What?" she looked even more worried now.

"Clara…" he sighed. "Let's say I'm having a fever dream, and I've gotten myself mixed up in some…crazy…things. Let's say there's nothing in that attic."

"Um. Ok?" she didn't sound comforted.

"I promise you, cross my hearts, I will get all the help I need." he paused. "In fact, I'm quite sure I will need to be seeking some sort of help either way."

Clara put a hand on his chest, looking as if she were about to start crying at last.

"But right now, I need you to trust me," He continued, trying to ignore the way his hearts were shattering. "Please."

"I love you." She stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. "And yes…I trust you."

"Good," he murmured, eyes closed. "I…you are the most important thing in the universe to me. The whole universe."

Clara pulled away and looked up at the dark entrance. Carefully, she stepped onto the shaky ladder. He followed a step or two behind.

"What's that?" she asked at the top, pointing at the big blue Police Box sitting in the middle of the small, gabled room.

"It's our mutual friend." He smiled fondly. "She's never really left us,"

"I don't…" she shook her head.

"Trisa D. Re-arrange the letters and you get her true name - TARDIS." He reached for the door handle. "She obviously does like you, by the way."

"Is this what's been scaring me?" she asked suspiciously.

"She doesn't always understand human nuances. You'll have to forgive her, she was doing all she could to get your attention." He held a hand out to Clara. "Trust me still?"

In response, she nodded once. Twice.

Hand in hand, they stepped through the front doors of the big blue box.


	5. Dreamers

**Dreamers**

Later, she would roll over in her bed fully expecting to find the warm body of her husband beside her. All that greeted her however, was a cold and unoccupied space.

_Strange_, she thought as she listened to the sound of traffic outside her window. _How do you miss a life you never led?_

* * *

_Then:_

_He was in a full blown panic by the time he reached her side. He had use of his limbs, and the other - the Dream Lord - was nowhere to be seen. But Clara wasn't so lucky - her skin was pale and her lips were blue. _

_Somewhere, in the dark recesses of his memories, he had memories of her dying, over and over, always because of him. The thought of witnessing it again made him want to retch._

_Cradling her in his arms, he held her close enough to determine that she was indeed, breathing. Thanking every single god he didn't believe in, the Doctor lifted her body and carried her into his own bed without any hesitation. _

* * *

Every once in a while, whether she was in the classroom, or shopping for groceries, or watching the telly, she would find herself idly rubbing at the base of her fourth finger on her left hand.

"Why do you do that?" Danny asked, watching her do this over dinner one night. "Hinting for a ring are we?"

It was a forced joke. Actually, the whole date felt forced. Things hadn't been the same between them, and she knew that he knew that it had something to do with the Doctor.

Danny was sweet and kind, handsome and brave, human and uncomplicated – any sane girl should consider herself so lucky to be with him.

Clara wasn't sure if she fit that description anymore.

Setting her cutlery down, Clara opened her mouth to speak, but Danny beat her to the punch.

"I guess we're about to have a 'talk' aren't we?" his sideways smile hid his feelings, but not well.

"Yea." She nodded, wondering what happened to the speech she had crafted in her head. "Yea."

"Should I even bother asking why?" he asked. "Or should I just assume you're leaving me for the Doctor?"

Clara looked down at her food, feeling something quite similar to shame welling up insider her.

"Yeah…that's what I thought," she heard Danny say. "I've been expecting this for some time, to be really honest."

"How could you have?" she asked. "I didn't."

"Right." She peered up to see that he was smiling ruefully. "Of course you think you didn't."

Clara reached over and gently grasped Danny's large hand in her own.

"I'm really sorry." She said earnestly.

"I know," he nodded, not pulling away from her. "But that's neither here nor there."

"Nothing's actually happened between…between him and I." Clara wondered how true that statement was.

"…Right…" he didn't sound convinced.

"I'm serious," she said.

He looked away from her for a second, studying the faces of the people around them.

"Clara, I care about you very, very much." He said at last, withdrawing his hand from hers. "I don't like the Doctor and I don't want to break up with you. But most of all, I don't want to see you unhappy…so if being with him makes you happy then...good."

He picked up his fork and stabbed at a potato.

"I can't lie - I hope whatever the two of you have goes up in flames," he grinned before taking a bite. With his mouth full, he added, "Big…flamey…catastrophe."

Clara laughed, and said, "It probably will."

They smiled at each other for a few moments. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "I suppose I better get the bill. Don't really fancy sitting around for too long with the girl who just chucked me."

"Fair enough," she nodded. "I hope things won't be awkward between us at work tomorrow."

"Oh, but it will be," he promised sardonically, taking a sip of his beer. "It very much will be."

* * *

_Then:_

_According to the Doctor, she had been out for days (although, what does time mean anyway in a time machine?)._

_"What happened?" she croaked, her throat parched as a desert. Her eyes – shut for so long - fluttered close against what felt like a blinding light overhead._

_She was met with silence, and the sound of a shutting door._

_When she was well enough to walk and stand on her own, he dropped her off in her own empty home, which had never seemed so unfamiliar to her. As he turned to go, she reached out and grabbed his hand. She didn't miss his wince as they touched. _

_"I will see you again right?" she asked, inexplicably struck by the notion that he was abandoning her forever._

_He cracked a rusty smile._

_"I couldn't stay away from you if I tried…but...I think perhaps I need to take some time on my own…"_

_That wasn't what she wanted to hear at all. Nonetheless, she said, "I get it. Sure."_

* * *

He was watching the birth of a brand new species taking place on the underside of a gas cloud a few parsecs away from Earth when it occurred to him that Clara would have enjoyed an outing like this very much.

The Doctor sighed out loud, earning himself a disapproving look from the guide in front of him, who had been lecturing a group of young Venusians. It _might _have been a disapproving look anyway – the guide had too many eyes for him to be able to truly read.

Despondently returning to the TARDIS, the Doctor hesitated a little before he charted a course back to Earth.

The next little while was mostly uneventful. Mostly.

From a rooftop across the street, he would sometimes watch her through her windows after she got home from work. From adjacent classrooms at Coal Hill, he'd surreptitiously check in on her, closely observing her every move. The Doctor supposed he could have just gone directly to her, instead of skulking about, spying on her like some sort of low grade pervert.

The one constant he observed was the air of heavy contemplation bordering on a deep sadness which hung about her being nowadays. He had an inkling as to the cause of her melancholy, but he wasn't ready to address it just yet - not when he needed to work on his own issues.

That had been the plan anyway, until the night he saw her leaving work with the Soldier man, and realized with belated irritation, who she was sharing her evening meal with.

Against his better judgment, the Doctor trailed behind the two schoolteachers like a sulky schoolboy, and watched from a shadowy corner as they got themselves seated.

Jealousy exploded in the Doctor's mind as he watched the two of them holding hands across the dinner table. All his precautions and his plans suddenly ceased to make any difference. It took every last ounce of self-control he had not to march across the room to their table, in order to pull the two of them apart. His fingers curled into a fist as he imagined the sensation of bones breaking under his knuckles.

_Clara would be wise to run_, a little voice said at the back of his head, words which he pointedly ignored.

Stalking back towards the TARDIS and without any hesitation once he was within, the Doctor keyed in a specific set of coordinates.

When next he stepped out of his ship, he was in her empty bedroom.

* * *

It was only thirty minutes later when she arrived. The Doctor didn't stop to consider why she was home so soon, although he did note with some satisfaction that she was alone.

Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him.

"Close the door." He said with deadly calm.

"Hello to you too," she said sarcastically, but complied nonetheless. "You disappear for a few weeks and now you're just swanning in like you own the place."

Clara turned around to find herself suddenly within inches of the Doctor, who had crossed the distance between them with alarming speed. Slamming his hands against the wooden surface, one on either side of her head, he had her trapped between the door and his body, close enough she could feel his breath ghosting against her face.

"Doctor…" she breathed, "What are you doing?"

He didn't say anything in response. Instead, he just stared at her intently, allowing his gaze to fall to her lips. Unconsciously, her tongue darted out and licked at her bottom lip.

Without warning, he scooped down low and captured her lips with his. His right hand cupped the base of her skull, preventing her from moving away. Sharp teeth caught her lips and tongue as if he sought to devour her utterly; trailing his lips along her jaw, he nipped at her earlobes while his hands wandered down the small of her back.

"Wait," she managed to gasp.

"For?" he asked, his fingers digging almost painfully into her hips.

"Shouldn't we talk about what happened first?" she tried to catch her breath as his mouth worked urgently against her neck.

"There's nothing to talk about," he growled against her skin. "You're mine. Every inch of you."

Pushing his body against hers with his hands on her face, he kissed her deeply and desperately. Clara could feel his arousal through her dress as wetness pooled between her legs. Vaguely, she remembered how it felt in the dream world when he took her, but there was no time for half memories that didn't truly exist.

Tasting him in reality was so much more intoxicating than any dream she might have lived.

Clever fingers trailed down her side and reached under the hem of her skirt. Skillfully, he pushed aside her panties and brushed against her damp slit.

"Oh," she murmured as he circled her clit with his thumb. Her hips jerked forwards, but one hand kept her pinned against the front door.

"Uh uh," his eyes gleamed. "You move when I decide."

The Doctor's long fingers slipped inside her, finger fucking her at an achingly slow speed. His own breath was uneven as he watched her come apart in his hands, begging without words for him to offer her release.

Just as she was about to come, he withdrew his fingers and buried them in her hair, drawing her in for another kiss as he swallowed her disappointed moan.

Turning her around, he gently pushed her deeper into the living room and bent her over the arm of the sofa. Sliding her cotton underwear off her legs, he pulled her legs apart and stroked her across her dripping opening, listening raptly as she came undone, laid bare before him.

* * *

They were lying together in her bed much later, legs tangled and hair matted, when he pronounced, "I don't think you should see that PE teacher anymore."

"His name is Danny," she retorted. "And he's a Math teacher."

"You know what I mean." The Doctor sniffed haughtily.

"We broke up earlier tonight." She said.

The Doctor paused, replaying the scene he had been privy to in the restaurant. He had the grace to feel a little embarrassed – not that he was going to admit anything of the sort to Clara.

"Good." He said shortly.

"Can we talk about your mental breakdown a few weeks ago?" Clara asked.

"I was worried you were going to leave me after that whole incident with the moon." The Doctor ran a hand over his face. "My brain shorted from stress. When a Time Lord's brain shorts, bad things tend to happen."

Clara rolled over to look at him with some disbelief.

"You could have said something," she sounded aghast. "I wasn't going to leave you. Not really."

"Well…good." He looked as if he were trying to make himself believe her.

"To my recollection, I have lived…and died…for you over and over." She poked his shoulder with a finger. "We had one fight and you couldn't let that go?"

"Yes fine." he replied irritably. "What do you want, an apology?"

"Yes," she replied. "Actually, that would be very nice."

The Doctor closed his eyes. Finally, he said very softly, "I'm sorry."

"Ok," she collapsed back in his arms.

"That's it?" he asked. "You don't want to talk about your feelings? About the change in the nature of our relationship?"

"Tomorrow. In the meantime, if you don't mind shutting the TARDIS door and coming back to bed," her voice was muffled against her pillows. "That would be great. I can't sleep with that light streaming in."

The Doctor opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it at the very last. Grumbling, he did as he was told before climbing under the sheets with her.

In the silence of the night, the Doctor breathed Clara in, marveling at how soft and how right she felt in his arms, her body tucked up against his. When finally he allowed himself to drift off into sleep, it was a dreamless and deep slumber, punctuated only by the beating of their hearts.

FIN


End file.
